Você procurou por: i would rather say the awkward words (Inglês - Tagalo)

i would rather say the awkward words than lose you or for love to fade before it can come true
mas gugustuhin kong sabihin ang mga awkward words

i would rather say this night
mas gugustuhin kong sabihin ang mga salungat na salita

i would rather do
mas gugustuhin kong pumili

i would rather choose
mas gugustuhin kong pumili ay si twitter

i would rather die the wife of culpeper
mas gugustuhin kong mamatay

i would rather talk to you
mas gugustuhin kong tumawag sa iyo

i would rather die than stay here
mas gugustuhin kong mamatay kaysa sa saktan ka

i would rather be with you than at work
i would rather be here than i used to be

i would rather go for the rest of my life without junk food
mas gugustuhin ko

i would rather die of passion than of boredom
i would rather die of passion than of boredom

i would rather die on my feet than live on my knee
mas gugustuhin ko pang mamatay sa paa kaysa mabuhay sa tuhod

i would rather die than having a crush on a girl
mas gugustuhin kong mamatay kaysa saktan kita

i would rather just leave it in the past where it belongs if you don't mind.
gusto ko sanang kalimutan lahat iyan, puwede ba?

i would rather die than let you go juliet to romeo how i you heard
i would rather die than let you go juliet to romeo how i

even if you want to break up with me,no i don't. i would rather be alone.
gusto mo makipaghiwalay sa akin

i didn't say anything in those days and i realized that my aunt was right because sometimes i would rather ask my mom for money than say hello and tell her i didn't say those days until we got to they house aunt conching
wala akong nasabi noong mga araw na yun at na realize ko na tama nga si tita sapagkat minsan mas inuuna ko pa yung pag hingi ng pera kay mama kaysa sa kumustahin at kausapin sya wala akong nasabi nong mga araw na yun hanggang sa makarating na kami sa bahay nila tita conching

a low art [excerpt from the penelopiad] by margaret atwood (canada) now that i’m dead i know everything. this is what i wished would happen, but like so many of my wishes it failed to come true. i know only a few factoids that i didn’t know before. death is much too high a price to pay for the satisfaction of curiosity, needless to say. since being dead — since achieving this state of bonelessness, liplessness, breastlessness —i’ve learned some things i would rather not know, as one does when listening at windows or opening ot her people’s letters. you think you’d like to read minds? think again. down here everyone arrives with a sack, like the sacks used to keep the winds in, but each of these sacks is full of words —words you’ve spoken, words you’ve heard, wo rds that have been said about you. some sacks are very small, others large; my own is of a reasonable size, though a lot of the words in it concern my eminent husband. what a fool he made of me, some say. it was a specialty of his: making fools. he got away with everything, which was another of his specialties: getting away. he was always so plausible. many people have believed that his version of events was the true one, give or take a few murders, a few beautiful seductresses, a few one-eyed monsters. even i believed him, from time to time. i knew he was tricky and a liar, i just didn’t think he would play his tricks and try out his lies on me. hadn’t i been faithful? hadn’t i waited, and waited, and waited, despite the temptation — almost the compulsion — to do otherwise? and what did i amount to, once the official version gained ground? an edifying legend. a stick used to beat other women with. why couldn’t they be as considerate, as trustworthy, as all-suffering as i had been? that was the line they took, the singers, the yarn- spinners. don’t follow my example, i want to scream in your ears — yes, yours! but when i try to scream, i sound like an owl. of course i had inklings, about his slipperiness, his wiliness, his foxiness, his — how can i put this? — his unscrupulousness, but i turned a blind eye. i kept my mouth shut; or if i opened it, i sang his praises. i didn’t contradict, i didn’t ask awkward questions, i didn’t dig deep. i wanted happy endings in those days, and happy endings are best achieved by keeping the right doors locked and going to sleep during the rampages. but after the main events were over and things had become less legendary, i realised how many people were laughing at me behind my back — how they were jeering, making jokes about me, jokes both clean and dirty; how they were turning me into a story, or into several stories, though not the kind of stories i’d prefer to hear about m yself. what can a woman do when scandalous gossip travels the world? if she defends herself she sounds guilty. so i waited some more. now that all the others have run out of air, it’s my t urn to do a little storymaking. i owe it to myself. i’ve had to work myself up to it: it’s a low art, tale-telling. old women go in for it, strolling beggars, blind singers, maidservants, children — folks with time on their hands. once, people would have laughed if i’d tried to play th e minstrel —there’s nothing more preposterous than an aristocrat fumbling around with the arts — but who cares about public opinion now? the opinion of the people down here: the opinions of shadows, of echoes. so i’ll spin a thread of my own.
isang mababang kwento ng sining sa tagalog